


Not good enough

by CrushedRose



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Break Up, Depression, Gen, Make Up, One not so happy ending chapter, Sad, one chapter happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-11
Packaged: 2018-05-19 03:28:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5952043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrushedRose/pseuds/CrushedRose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was tired,  the kind sleep cannot fix anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my very first story, so please be gentle and any errors would be appreciated.

 

Not Good Enough

 

 

He was tired, the kind of tired sleep cannot fix anymore. He has given it his everything, in everything he did. 

 

Being a good kid

A good cop.

 

A good husband.

 

A good friend.

 

A good lover.

 

In the end he failed all. 

 

He was an average cop, a lesser idiot than the rest if Sherlock was too believed.  

Then again he is never wrong when it comes to facts. Just good enough to bring him cases, but not good enough to be more.  

 

"Hell, he doesn't even know my name!"

 

"Sir, are you alright?” Greg looked up at the bartender. He nodded once. 

 

"I'm fine. Just contemplating." The man looked sceptical, but years in the business taught him when to listen, 

when to talk and when to keep his mouth shut. Looking at the man in front of him he saw a man, 

broken down by the weight of his emotions, being suffocated by the grief and pain of an unknown source. 

 

"Well I'm here if you want to talk"

 

"Can I have another whisky?”

With a nod he refilled the glass. 

The golden liquid hardly had time to be affected by the cold of the ice cubes in the glass before Greg poured it down his throat.

 

"Cheers mate.”

 

Tried. He did, he went out of his way to help. 

Succeeded? No. Apparently he, and by looking at the evidence and facts, succeeded was the last thing he did. 

Wasn't good enough, unlike John Watson. 

 

Being a husband?

 

He tried even harder, he was faithful.  

When thinking back he was actually a bit old school in that regard.  

Viewed honesty and his vows as one of the most serious promises he ever made. Didn't do him much good in the end either. 

 

She still cheated. 

 

Twice. 

 

Granted he was hardly home, but when he was home, he gave it everything he had. 

She never had to remind him to take out the trash, or replace a light bulb. She would ask, he would jump.

  

"Trying to make up for being at work so much.”

The bartender looked at Greg again, not commenting but instead just refilled his glass like he asked.  

 

"Thanks.”

This time the liquid had a little more time to get acquainted with the slowly disappearing ice cubes before making its way down Greg's throat. 

He tried to be a good friend. 

To his colleagues, his wife's friends.  

To Sherlock, John, hell even Mycroft. 

 

Mycroft 

Mycroft. Mycroft. Mycroft. 

 

"No. You don’t have enough alcohol in your system to go down that route." 

 

He looked up at the bartender. 

"Another.”

This is his fourth glass. Dutifully he poured the liquid into the glass.  

By now only small remnants of the ice remains. It would be gone by the time he drinks it.

 

"Ta."

Greg swirled the liquid and watched as the ice cubes finally disappears.  

He was there before John; he was able to plant the seeds of being clean to Sherlock.  

He laid the foundation for the Consulting Detective. But it wasn't enough.  

He still wasn't good enough. Years of hard work and dedication disappearing like his ice cubes in the whisky glass.  

Back before the hiatus or death of Sherlock he put his job on the line and called John to warn them.

It wasn't good enough. 

 

John and Sherlock became wanted. 

Sherlock jumped. 

John was the one to fall into depression and resentment. 

 

He practically blamed Greg, but Mycroft first. Him second. For months there was no contact, no beers down the pub. 

It wasn't needed.  

Greg wasn't good enough anymore to listen to the rambles of Baker Street.

 

There were no rambles. 

 

Even now things are different. They will probably never be as close as the used to. Besides he's with Mycroft, 

so it is us against them. If only he knew that it was actually them all against Greg.

 

Because he wasn't good enough to be trusted, he was a cop. 

He wasn't good enough to know about Mary.

He wasn't good enough to know about Magnussen.

He wasn't good enough to say goodbye as Sherlock went on his mission. 

 

He did try to talk to the man, but yet again his opinion, his caring and emotions were thrown back into his face.

 

"Last one.” 

 

He looked towards the bartender and pushed his glass a little way. The bartender walked over and poured another glass of whisky.

 

"More ice?"

 

"Nah."

 

Pushing the glass back to Greg he walked away to help someone else.  

Greg took the glass in his hand and with one gulp swallowed the whole lot down.  

He stood up; a little unsteady but still able to walk straight.  

Putting some money on the counter he walked out.  

The cold weather was welcome on his face and the light rain, very welcome considering he feels like crying any moment. 

He started walking home and his eyes caught the edge of the camera.

 

Mycroft. 

Bloody hell, did he love that man.

 

That beautiful, extravagant, stylish and mysterious man.  

How they ever got together is still a mystery and unsolved case to him.

 

A cold case now. 

 

Like the weather.

 

Like his heart. 

 

He tried, heavens know he tried. He sacrificed, he stood back.  

He accepted that he wasn't smart enough, to help with plans and knowing what was going on.  

He wasn’t cleared to know the things Mycroft did. With all of this he still tried to support whenever he could. 

Until the fight. 

Let no man said that the Holmes men know how to hit exactly where it would hurt the most. 

Without physically attacking, but with a few tongue lashing words he was brought down to nothing but a failure.  

He took out his phone, looking at his messages. 

 

One from John:

 

"Listen. I'm sorry about you and Mycroft, but I have to think about my marriage and the baby on the way.  

I can't get involved.  

See you around. JW"

 

One from Sherlock 

"Sentiment. Even though not as smart or as brilliant as me or my brother even you 

should have had more common sense to know it would never have lasted. 

Did you really think you could change my brother? He lives by his beliefs.  

Caring is not an advantage. SH"

 

One from Mycroft 

"I've made arrangements for your things to be delivered back at your flat, anything related to me to be taken.  

No further contact will be made. 

My apologies. MH"

 

Everything he ever did is falling apart and in all honesty he is tired. 

Tired of fighting. 

Tired of trying

Tired of not being good enough. 

 

He made up his mind. 

 

The moment he got home he made arrangements; he contacted his landlord to end his contract, 

as compensation he could keep all the furniture.  

He loaded all of his clothes and shoes, as well as the food in his kitchen and dropped it off at a homeless centre.  

He packed up any personal belonging, movies, cd’s DVD’s everything and left it at a charity shop.  

He might not be good enough, for the people he loved, but may be for a stranger.  

After calling in for two weeks emergency leave he is officially prepared. 

 

The bottle of pills is lying next to him on his bed. 

The cupboards and flat stripped bare of anything personal. 

Clothes and shoes all gone, except those his wearing. Fridge and kitchen empty of food. 

Just the furniture. No photos, no collector items, no books, DVDs, all gone.  

Besides the man lying on the bed with his gun and badge on the bedside the place is cold and barren. 

He took the bottle of whisky and swallowed a couple pills. 

He picked up his phone.

  

His opened his messages and went to the third one, the one from John. 

He hit reply;

"I've known. I’ve always known. You shot the cabbie. You lied back at the pool about Moriaty; 

you purposefully decked the chief to get arrested. I know Mary was the one to shot Sherlock.  

I know about her past. Your loyalty to Sherlock is astounding. I've tried John. Even Mycroft. 

I did all I could. To get him clean, to be there, but I wasn't you. I've tried to make good, to be there, and to help him. 

To be a friend. I'm sorry I wasn't good enough.  

Don’t worry; there is nothing to get involved with. Take care. GL"

 

Wiping a few tears he swallowed a few more pills. Moving on to the next message, the one from Sherlock. 

 

"From the first time I met you and your brother my life has changed so much.  

You're one of the most brilliant and amazing man I've ever met, and owe you so much.  

I've tried to be good enough, to be there for you, to help you and I wasn't. I'm sorry. 

You come so far from the junkie I picked up on the street. 

So many times I've put my job and name on the line because I believed in you.

 I love your brother, so much.  

I didn't think I was good enough for someone like him; you only confirmed that, 

I did think that I might have been good enough to try.  

I'm sorry I wasn't good enough, but don't worry, you won't have to put up with this idiot any longer.  

Take care. GL"

 

Not even trying to stop the tears he swallowed the last few pills.  

He put the empty holder next to his badge and gun. 

Drinking a few more of the whisky he laid back against the headboard.  

 

One more to go.  

He could already feel the effects of the pills.

He opened the last message.  

 

"Not sure if you're going to read this or even find this. I just wanted to let you know that I love you.  

Always will. And I'm sorry I wasn't good enough for someone like you. Love always. 

PS. I won't bother you again, and please keep an eye on Sherlock.  

I wish I could hear your voice one last time, we’ll it won't matter soon. GL"

 

 

All done, he drank the last few drops of the whisky, without a care he dropped the bottle on the floor.  

Besides he didn’t have the strength in his limbs anyway.  

He put his phone on next to him on the pillow; he was too weak to stretch out to table.  

 

He could feel himself becoming lighter. 

He cried.

 

From a distant he could hear his phone alert to a message. 

Another beep.

Another beep.

 

Last thing he heard was his phone ringing. 

 

It went to voice mail.

 


	2. Somebody that I used to know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three months later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As per request this is the chapter dealing with Greg's death.

 

Mycroft stared at the glass, he watched as the condensation on the outside accumulating and finally became a drop of water and softly rolling down the glass. It fell on the desk.

 

He feels like the glass is trying to tell him something, that maybe he should let the salty water in the corners of his eyes accumulate and also travel down to join the desk.

 

He hasn’t cried since that day, then again, he hasn’t done much in the emotion department since that day. It’s been three months.  

 

Three minutes

 

Three hours

 

Three days

 

Three weeks

 

Three months

 

Three years

 

It’s all the same to him now. That’s the problem with an eidetic memory. You remember everything if you try, but he’s been trying so hard to forget. If only he could delete like his little brother. 

 

He was at Baker Street, with his brother, John and Mary. They were having tea; happy that Sherlock did not went on the suicide mission. There was however the problem with Moriaty but for a moment, they were just content.  

 

Someone was missing though, Greg. Sherlock didn’t call him over, because Mycroft was there and they have just broken up, it would’ve been awkward.

 

Oh if only he could turn back time, he would’ve insisted on Greg being there. 

 

They were dating for a year, when it all went downhill.  

 

Granted it was the best year of his life. For the first time in his life he was wanted for who he is, not for what he could offer. It felt strange but Greg was patient and slowly he released the man hiding underneath.  

 

In the end it had to end, Greg was a liability. The one man who could get Mycroft to surrender everything. He would move mountains for that man.

 

He still felt guilty about the fight and the break up that followed. He should’ve handled it better, instead he let the mask, the ice man take over and once his mouth opened, he couldn't stop the words. 

 

John turned around to make tea when his phone beeped. He looked at the message and frowned. Mary saw.

"John? Everything all right?" Mycroft and Sherlock turned to him.

"I just got a strange message from Greg."

"What does it say?” Mycroft sincerely hoped his voice didn't sound as desperate as he was. John looked at Mycroft then he read the message out loud.

 

"I've known. I’ve always known. You shot the cabbie. You lied back at the pool about Moriaty; you purposefully decked the chief to get arrested. I know Mary was the one to shot Sherlock. I know about her past. Your loyalty to Sherlock is astounding. I've tried John. Even Mycroft. I did all I could. To get him clean, to be there, but I wasn't you. I've tried to make good, to be there, and to help him. To be a friend. I'm sorry I wasn't good enough. Don’t worry; there is nothing to get involved with. Take care. GL"

 

Everyone froze; the silence was descending as a thick fog in the room. Mycroft stopped breathing; Sherlock frowned and turned to Mycroft. Mary kept trying to open her mouth but no words came out. John looked at each of them, his eyes settling on Mycroft. 

"Did you tell him?"

He shook his head.  

"How did he found out then?"

Mycroft lost his temper.

“Because he's not the idiot you all make him out to be. He is actually smarter than you give him credit for. "

They all stared at him. Mary broke the silence. 

"What does he mean with take care? Is he going somewhere?" John shrugged. Mycroft stared into space, his mind a million miles away. Sherlock stood up and walked towards his brother.  

"Brother?”

Mycroft look like he was close to breaking, he turned away and picked up his phone.  

"Get me an update on Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. I want to know exactly where he is and what his doing. "

The others looked dumbfounded, Sherlock worried. Before he could say anything, his phone beeped. With a breath he picked up his phone.  

He read the message. 

 

He looked up at his brother, a million emotions running across his face. 

"Please get someone to him now!”

Mycroft dialled again. He ordered a team over to Greg's location. Confused John looked at them, Mary has stood up.  

"Sherlock?”

Sherlock handed his phone to John; taking the phone he read the message out loud as well. 

"From the first time I met you and your brother my life has changed so much. You're one of the most brilliant and amazing man I've ever met, and owe you so much. I've tried to be good enough, to be there for you, to help you and I wasn't. I'm sorry. You come so far from the junkie I picked up on the street. So many times I've put my job and name on the line because I believed in you.

I love your brother, so much. I didn't think I was good enough for someone like him; you only confirmed that, I did think that I might have been good enough to try. I'm sorry I wasn't good enough, but don't worry, you won't have to put up with this idiot any longer.  

Take care. GL"

 

Mary gasped, the implications quite clear of that message. Mycroft gone pale, his heart stopped breathing as he struggled to understand, his hands were clasping his phone that his knuckles turned white.  

"Oh God." John whispered. 

Mycroft's phone rang. He picked it up. 

"What? Go in. Deal with it, I'm on my way. "

Sherlock grabbed his coat while Mycroft spoke and by the time he was finished he was ready. 

Mycroft turned to him.

"Anthea increased his surveillance this morning, she noticed he got rid of all his possessions, and took emergency leave at work. She's on her way to his flat. "

"We're coming with you." Sherlock grabbed his brother's shoulders in support. Mycroft gave a small nod. 

"I'll come later; I’ll only slow you down.” Mary said as she handed John his jacket. Without replying the three men left the room.  

 

They were hardly in the car when Mycroft's phone beeped. He looked at the name but made no attempt to read it. Instead he gave it to Sherlock. 

"Brother mine.... I.... can you...."

Sherlock took the phone and opened the message.  

He read:

"Not sure if you're going to read this or even find this. I just wanted to let you know that I love you. Always will. And I'm sorry I wasn't good enough for someone like you. Love always. PS. I won't bother you again, and please keep an eye on Sherlock. I wish I could hear your voice one last time, we’ll it won't matter soon. GL"

 

They were shocked, each staring at each other, no one speaking. Mycroft grabbed his phone and dialled.

“Answer!” his voice sounded desperate and hoarse in the car.  

John’s face was set in stone, Sherlock was eyes were wide, his mouth opened in shock, he was trying to make sense of what was happening, but the Sherlock hard drive was having trouble processing.

 

Mycroft kept dialling, his loud demands of “Answer.” was interrupted by silent begging of “please”. 

 

They reach the flat in record time. The red flickering lights of the ambulance was reflecting on the surrounding buildings windows, and throwing a spectrum of colour against the unmarked black car next to it. Anthea was already here. 

 

Mycroft had never run as fast as in that moment, his brother and John on his heels. They entered the flat and took a double take. It was stripped bare, no personal items anywhere, just cold furniture.   

Mycroft slowly walked towards the bedroom.

Sherlock and John stared at one another, and then slowly turned to Mycroft. He gave a once over and rushed to the bedroom.  

Sherlock and John were still frozen to the spot. The kitchen cupboards were open and empty, the fridge clean and unplugged.

The tables and walls were bare; there were no personal items anywhere. It was cold and empty.  

 

Mycroft stood in the doorway of the bedroom. There on the bed was Greg, surrounding him was the emergency services trying to save his life. Anthea was standing in the corner tears running down her face. 

 

They were doing CPR, but so far unsuccessful.  

 

With every compression, Mycroft felt the air leaving his lungs, if only he could give it to Greg. 

 His hearts stopped beating when the EMT seized doing compressions.

 

“Stop.”

“Time of death...”

“NO!” Mycroft’s voice reverberated throughout the room, since it was so bare, it echoed.

 

Sherlock and John shook as they stood in the living room, like one man they rushed to his brother. The stood behind him, looking at the scene. Sherlock grabbed his brother’s arm.

“I’m sorry Mr. Holmes, we did everything we could.”

“Try again!” 

“It’s been 10 minutes sir. There’s nothing more to be done.” He turned around to the body, and looking at his watch.

“Please don’t.” Mycroft was begging.

“Time of death. 12:45.”

Closing his eyes he let go. Sherlock caught him, wrapping his arms around his brother; they slowly sank down to the floor. It was silent in the room.  

 

Taking a breath, Mycroft wiped his face, the tears finally running down his cheeks, the drops falling in an uneven pattern on the table. With trembling hands he took the glass and swallowed the liquid, it burned down his throat, but he didn’t care.

 

He hardly remembered the funeral; he can however recall every single trip he made to several charity shops, to several homeless centres to find the small lost traces of Greg. He got most of it back, and arranged it around his home.  

 

His favourite book is on his bedside table; his favourite coat was hanging next to his bathrobe. His favourite movie collection, standing proud next to his TV. His sport hoodie was tucked under his pillow His favourite beer in his fridge, no one drinks it, not one dares to remove it.  

 

The ice man had finally succumb to his greatest weakness; sentiment. 

Besides it was the only thing left of Gregory.

 

Refilling his glass he walked towards his wardrobe, there in the corner is Greg’s police uniform.  

Softly he ran his fingers down the lapels, touching the buttons. He steps closer and inhaled the scent.

“It stills smells like you.” He whispered to the uniform.  

 

To be honest, he did spray it occasionally with Greg’s cologne he walked over to his bedside, his hands shook as he picked up a photo, and Greg was smiling a big, goofy smile at the camera.

“I miss you.” 

He put the photo back and crawled on top of the bed. He grabbed the hoodie from underneath his pillow burying his face in the cloth he whispered. 

“I love you.”  

 

 


	3. At the beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We have a new beginning. "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one year after Not good enough. Greg lives! 
> 
> I really hope you all like it.

 

At the beginning

 

The first thing Mycroft noticed when he opened his eyes, was the light reflecting on the gold band. It cast a small rainbow across the finger. His heart skipped a beat.  

Today one year ago, his life changed in such a way that he will never be able to go back to who he was before. Things couldn’t have been damaged beyond any chance of repair. 

 

The finger twitched and the rainbow disappeared.  

He hasn’t thought about that day, in a few weeks, his mind and focus were on other things. The future in fact. Looking at the gold band, he couldn’t help to think back.

 

 

He was at Baker Street, with his brother, John and Mary. They were having tea; happy that Sherlock did not went on the suicide mission. There was however the problem with Moriaty but for a moment, they were just content.  

 

Someone was missing though, Greg. Sherlock didn’t call him over, because Mycroft was there and they have just broken up, it would’ve been awkward.

Oh if only he could turn back time, he would’ve insisted on Greg being there. 

They were dating for a year, when it all went downhill.  

 

Granted it was the best year of his life. For the first time in his life he was wanted for who he is, not for what he could offer. It felt strange but Greg was patient and slowly he released the man hiding underneath.  

In the end it had to end, Greg was a liability. The one man who could get Mycroft to surrender everything. He would move mountains for that man.

 

He still felt guilty about the fight and the break up that followed. He should’ve handled it better, instead he let the mask, the ice man take over and once his mouth opened, he couldn't stop the words. 

 

John turned around to make tea when his phone beeped. He looked at the message and frowned. Mary saw.

"John? Everything all right?" Mycroft and Sherlock turned to him.

"I just got a strange message from Greg."

"What does it say?” Mycroft sincerely hoped his voice didn't sound as desperate as he was. John looked at Mycroft then he read the message out loud.

 

"I've known. I’ve always known. You shot the cabbie. You lied back at the pool about Moriaty; you purposefully decked the chief to get arrested. I know Mary was the one to shot Sherlock. I know about her past. Your loyalty to Sherlock is astounding. I've tried John. Even Mycroft. I did all I could. To get him clean, to be there, but I wasn't you. I've tried to make good, to be there, and to help him. To be a friend. I'm sorry I wasn't good enough. Don’t worry; there is nothing to get involved with. Take care. GL"

 

Everyone froze; the silence was descending as a thick fog in the room. Mycroft stopped breathing; Sherlock frowned and turned to Mycroft. Mary kept trying to open her mouth but no words came out. John looked at each of them, his eyes settling on Mycroft. 

"Did you tell him?"

He shook his head.  

"How did he found out then?"

Mycroft lost his temper.

“Because he's not the idiot you all make him out to be. He is actually smarter than you give him credit for. "

They all stared at him.  

 

Mary broke the silence. 

"What does he mean with take care? Is he going somewhere?" John shrugged. Mycroft stared into space, his mind a million miles away. Sherlock stood up and walked towards his brother.  

"Brother?”

Mycroft look like he was close to breaking, he turned away and picked up his phone.  

"Get me an update on Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. I want to know exactly where he is and what his doing. "

 

The others looked dumbfounded, Sherlock worried. Before he could say anything, his phone beeped. With a breath he picked up his phone.  

He read the message.  

He looked up at his brother, a million emotions running across his face. 

"Please get someone to him now!”

 

Mycroft dialled again. He ordered a team over to Greg's location. Confused John looked at them, Mary has stood up.  

"Sherlock?”

Sherlock handed his phone to John; taking the phone he read the message out loud as well. 

 

"From the first time I met you and your brother my life has changed so much. You're one of the most brilliant and amazing man I've ever met, and owe you so much. I've tried to be good enough, to be there for you, to help you and I wasn't. I'm sorry. You come so far from the junkie I picked up on the street. So many times I've put my job and name on the line because I believed in you.

I love your brother, so much. I didn't think I was good enough for someone like him; you only confirmed that, I did think that I might have been good enough to try. I'm sorry I wasn't good enough, but don't worry, you won't have to put up with this idiot any longer.  

Take care. GL"

 

Mary gasped the implications quite clear of that message. Mycroft gone pale, his heart stopped breathing as he struggled to understand, his hands were clasping his phone that his knuckles turned white.  

"Oh God." John whispered. 

Mycroft's phone rang. He picked it up. 

"What? Go in. Deal with it, I'm on my way. "

Sherlock grabbed his coat while Mycroft spoke and by the time he was finished he was ready. 

Mycroft turned to him.

"Anthea increased his surveillance this morning, she noticed he got rid of all his possessions, and took emergency leave at work. She's on her way to his flat. "

 

"We're coming with you." Sherlock grabbed his brother's shoulders in support. Mycroft gave a small nod. 

"I'll come later; I’ll only slow you down.” Mary said as she handed John his jacket. Without replying the three men left the room.  

They were hardly in the car when Mycroft's phone beeped. He looked at the name but made no attempt to read it. Instead he gave it to Sherlock. 

 

"Brother mine.... I.... can you...."

Sherlock took the phone and opened the message. He read:

 

"Not sure if you're going to read this or even find this. I just wanted to let you know that I love you. Always will. And I'm sorry I wasn't good enough for someone like you. Love always. PS. I won't bother you again, and please keep an eye on Sherlock. I wish I could hear your voice one last time, we’ll it won't matter soon. GL"

 

They were shocked, each staring at each other, no one speaking. Mycroft grabbed his phone and dialled.

“Answer!” his voice sounded desperate and hoarse in the car. John’s face was set in stone, Sherlock was eyes were wide, his mouth opened in shock, he was trying to make sense of what was happening, but the Sherlock hard drive was having trouble processing.

Mycroft kept dialling, his loud demands of “Answer.” was interrupted by silent begging of “please”. 

 

They reach the flat in record time. The red flickering lights of the ambulance was reflecting on the surrounding buildings windows, and throwing a spectrum of colour against the unmarked black car next to it. Anthea was already here. 

 

Mycroft had never run as fast as in that moment, his brother and John on his heels. They entered the flat and took a double take. It was stripped bare, no personal items anywhere, just cold furniture. Mycroft slowly walked towards the bedroom.

 

Sherlock and John stared at one another, and then slowly turned to Mycroft. He gave a once over and rushed to the bedroom. Sherlock and John were still frozen to the spot. The kitchen cupboards were open and empty, the fridge clean and unplugged.

The tables and walls were bare; there were no personal items anywhere. It was cold and empty.  

 

Mycroft stood in the doorway of the bedroom. There on the bed was Greg, surrounding him was the emergency services trying to save his life. Anthea was standing in the corner tears running down her face. 

They were doing CPR, but so far unsuccessful. With every compression, Mycroft felt the air leaving his lungs, if only he could give it to Greg.

The shout came as a lighthouse in a dark storm

“I’ve got a pulse!” He grabbed the doorframe harder, the leather gloves tighten against his skin.  

 

He watched as they placed a oxygen mask over Greg’s face, he watched as they loaded him on a stretcher before wheeling him out. He followed the bed. Sherlock and John turned and watched as they walked past. Mycroft didn’t noticed, his eyes were fixed on the man on the bed.  

“I’m going with Greg.” He stated, and without waiting for a reaction he climbed in the back of the ambulance, his hand grabbing Greg’s.  

 

John and Sherlock stood in the silence of the flat. After a while Anthea walked out, standing next to them she looked at the place.

“He really thought this through didn’t he?”

“It’s remarkable.” Sherlock whispered. Followed by an “idiot.” John turned to her.

“We all played at part, we have to fix this.”

“Where do we start Dr. Watson?” Anthea whispered. Sherlock turned to face them, a gleam in his eye.

“By getting his stuff back.”

 

 

Mycroft closed his eyes to stop the tears from falling; he slowly made his way out of the bed. He walked over to the bathroom to wash his face. Wiping his face dry he looked around the bathroom, two toothbrushes, one electric, the other one normal, with the hairs bended over from use.

 

Two types of shampoo’s,

 

Two types of conditioner.

 

Two different colognes.

 

Turning around he looked around his room. Greg’s bathrobe was next to his, his favourite book on the bedside table. His shoes in the corner, sighing he bend down and rearranged them neatly next to his.

 

Walking into his wardrobe he looked at the complete different types of clothes. Practical. Comfortable. He walked towards the uniform. Softly he ran his fingers down the lapels, touching the buttons. He steps closer and inhaled the scent.

“It stills smells like you.” 

“Well that’s because I was wearing it only yesterday.” The voice made him jump. He turned around. There in the door stood the man of his dreams. The man who said yes. 

 

Greg frowned when he saw the look on his face.  

“My, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I was just thinking how different everything could’ve been. If I was just one minute late…”

“Shhhh… “Greg rushed over and put his arms around him.

“Don’t think like that. It’s all over, it’s in the past. Done and dusted. You were and we have a lifetime to be together.” Mycroft took his hand and looked at the gold band.  

“You’re right. You were promoted yesterday and we should still be celebrating.”

Greg laughed and intertwined their fingers. 

“The promotion or the engagement last night – which by the way – I did not see coming. In front of your whole family no less!”

“My parents adore you. It was the perfect time.”

“Yes it was. Did you saw Sherlock’s face?”

“I was too busy getting lost in yours.”

“Wow! How do I respond to that?” Mycroft kissed their intertwined hands, a small teardrop falling on the gold band.

 

“I love you. And I meant what I said last night. You are my breath, my heart, my everything and I will gladly spend the rest of my life showing you just how much I need you in my life. It could’ve been so different, it could have ended for me but now, I have a new beginning.”

 

Greg didn’t stop the tear that fell from his eye. He leaned closer until their stood against one another.

 

“We have a new beginning.”

 

 


End file.
